


leaving the small corner

by chartreuser



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7821382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/pseuds/chartreuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitty knows that there'll be change, every time he comes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leaving the small corner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fragilehuge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilehuge/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Short History of Eric Bittle and Closets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6471157) by [jacksbits (fragilehuge)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilehuge/pseuds/jacksbits). 



> so recently i've been down about my writing and my good pal kaii told me to write a remix; and i told emma that i'd remix one of her fics one day, so here it is! i loved her fic so much dudes. so much. 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr, [here](http://holsterr.tumblr.com).

Eric’s six years old.

He’s hiding in the closet, and can’t explain why—it’s not what people do, this he knows. Maybe the monsters do this. Lives in the spaces no one cares to look, except for the little children like him. Under the bed, or behind the door. Or the closet.

Does that qualify him for a little monster? Eric likes to think so. Imagines his limbs growing and spreading. Little branches. A tree, but just a little shorter. His father’s telling him to eat more, thinks that it’ll make him taller. Eric agrees, too, so he waits a little more patiently when his mother demonstrates how she makes the crust, or the careful peeling of an apple.

He wants to grow bigger. At least to a size larger than the space between his mother’s dresses and the floor. It’s a good trade-off, Eric thinks. Being too strong for a hiding place.

 

+

 

“People can be cruel,” says his mama, when someone said something he doesn’t remember completely but enough of to know that it wasn’t good. “And sometimes they mean it, and we have to learn how to look past those people, to be kind.” She’s making something with cinnamon; Eric thinks it’s new.

He doesn’t like change. Maybe it’s why he never outgrew his habit of backing into the closet.

“Sure,” Eric says, because he doesn’t understand how someone can be cruel without meaning to, and offers to mix the batter instead.

The next day is the first time he hears the heaviness of a slur on his tongue, and in contrast, how easily it slides off a stranger’s. The harsh end consonants, the deliberate placement of mouth and teeth, insults mellowing into something like a casual greeting.

Eric’s a quick learner.

 

+

 

He goes into the closet frequently, after that.

 

+

 

–But breaks out of the habit. Is frightened of them instead.

 

+

 

“So… no elevators,” says Shitty, after he’s stopped hyperventilating in the middle of the hotel hallway.

Bitty takes a breath—he’s Bitty now; grown into this compact name, nothing that suggests anything remotely near big. “No,” Bitty amends. “Just small, dark spaces.”

The lights went out.

“Was this from high school?” He tilts his head, unfolds his arms. Shitty knows how to make himself appear less intimidating, though Bitty doesn’t think he’s all that aware of it. The same way he’s a little callous sometimes. But it’s easy to see that he means well. Bitty just has difficulties talking about it.

So he says, “Maybe,” and then: “I don’t wanna get into all that.”

“Okay,” Shitty says, stepping back. Bitty’s just grateful there’s no hugs involved.

 

+

 

Later—he hears Shitty talking to Ransom and Holster. It’s a short, clipped warning: _don’t let your pranks get too far._ It’s odd to have taste a hint of what Jack must feel.

“They talk about me, too,” Jack says, startling Bitty. He hadn’t heard him. Jack shouted at him the day before—he must think this softens everything back into friendship. An olive branch.

Jack works _so_ strangely.

“Yeah?” Bitty mutters. Jack has his hands in his pockets, looking at him with a little too much focus.

Jack clears his throat, “Yeah.”

Bitty offers something up of his own: “I don’t like small spaces.”

Jack looks away, to the closed door in front of them. There’s no other sound in the house, except for the two conversations, with one already ending. The LAX bros aren’t shouting, either. Not even the birds. It feels like something’s about to break, or crash down. But nothing really happens. Nothing should happen. It’s just quiet.

 

+

 

What does it mean for Bitty when Jack kisses him, and to bring him all the way down to Madison? Something about all that feels out of touch, a haze where things are happening that he knows shouldn’t be.

“Eric used to crawl into the closets when he was younger,” his mama tells Jack, who’s trying to wipe down the surprise from his face. He ends up raising his eyebrows, smiling a little, saying something bland.

Bitty finishes his forkful of pie. “Mama always told me that I’d outgrow it.” He bumps his feet into Jack’s. “My _whole_ life.”

Jack looks down at the table. “What your father wanted,” he concluded.

“Didn’t grow big enough for the world,” Bitty shrugs, and Jack presses their shoulders together, crammed in their kitchen laid full of supplies.

“You grew differently,” Jack says, “We all did.”

 

+

 

They stop in front of the closet in Bitty’s room, half empty.

“So this was where you hid?” Jack opens the door, peering inside. There’s his figure skating costumes messily folded in the corner, and a few other clothes that Bitty wouldn’t be caught dead wearing now. It’s still strange that it’s someplace he’d known and then didn’t anymore—that this was what happened once you moved away. Everything in the past becoming a part of childhood.

“No,” Bitty says, remembering to answer. “It was the other house, before we moved.”

Jack hums. “What was it like?”

“Quaint,” is the first word that comes to Bitty’s mind. “Decent. There was a big tree in the front yard.”

“Yeah?” Jack prompts, eyes blinking wide. They’re so, so clear.

Bitty nods, a little jerkily. “I always wanted to climb it,” he told him. “I thought that—maybe one day I would.” He shifts a little—and the floor creaks beneath him. He’s forgotten all these details of this house already; too familiar with Samwell and her winding roads. It’s so strange to come back to someplace untouched, yet entirely different. It’s not his home anymore. But it used to be.

“I played too close to the street once,” Bitty starts a story, then stops. His memory is a little faulty now—it’s been too long. But he swears he knew what he felt like a decade ago, the indecisiveness. “I was six. Went into the closet because my mother screamed at me.”

Jack lifts a hand to curl around his nape, gentle. Bitty doesn’t know how to meet him like this, soft and a little yielding, although he’s a long way gone from someone who used to scream at him during morning practice.

“I was in there for a long time,” Bitty continues, laughing a little. He doesn’t know if he sounds bitter, or the truth had circulated around in his brain for too long; that he had things a little harder than most people and that was that. “Then I got sick of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says. He sounds heartbroken.

Bitty touches his arm. He’s not going to kiss him here—he wants to keep this room preserved, aged like a fine wine for him to come back to. Why change something already grown so old? “I’m sorry you could understand.”

 

+

 

He takes Jack to his old rink—not really.

It’s just that the route to the diner they’re going happens to pass it—and Jack, being Jack, recognises a rink no matter how lost he is. He slows the truck down, but doesn’t stop.

“Could we go?”

Bitty shakes his head. “Maybe sometime later,” he says. He’s lost a little of his easygoing back here, where it’s a little harder to be easygoing. It feels good not to be _nice_.

Jack nods, tilts his head a little. Studying.

“Too recent,” Bitty elaborates.

“I get it,” Jack sighs, and speeds up. He looks unbothered that Bitty’s making him lose out on seeing a rink he hasn’t stepped into before. “Some places just turn into graveyards.”

Bitty wonders which part of history Jack’s thinking of; what rattles around in that brain of his. “Have any of your own?”

Jack taps on the steering wheel, sings lowly to the radio. “Plenty,” he says, and makes eye contact. “I guess we all have them—always in the places we grow up in, eh?”

“Too bad we can’t stop time,” Bitty murmurs.

Jack grins at him a little dorkily, “For sure.”

 

+

 

In the elevator, up to Jack’s apartment in Providence, Bitty says, “I get over things.” He tilts his head up to look Jack in the eyes. “I’m not going to compete with what’s important to you.”

Jack rubs his thumb over his cheekbone. “You shouldn’t have to.” His voice bounces around in this space. For a minute—just for a hot minute—Bitty almost leans in to press their lips together. It’s so easy to forget.

“The closet’s not such a bad place to be,” Bitty tells him, a little cheeky. He steps back.

 

+

 

Bitty’s wrong.

 

+

 

“Bitty,” Jack calls, when he steps into the locker room. He waves to all of Jack’s teammates, gets slapped on the back a few times. They all recognise him as Jack’s friend—he doesn’t think any of them really suspects; if anything, Shitty’s far more open with his affections.

“Hi,” Bitty says. He hasn’t kissed Jack in two weeks—but he wants him, like this, happy off a win, Jack beaming brightly.

“Glad you could make it,” Jack claps his shoulder, and Bitty forces down the smile on his face. He wants to remind Jack to do the same; they’re in public now. Bitty’s an easily-recognised figure. Hockey’s still a homophobic sport.

“Go take your shower, Zimmermann,” Bitty says, and resigns himself to waiting for Jack, scrolling through his Twitter feed. He’s done in three minutes.

“There’s press outside,” Marty’s saying, jerking a thumb to the entrance, just as they’re about to leave.

Jack lowers his voice, turns his neck. Their foreheads are almost brushing. “I don’t wanna do press,” he whispers. “I wanna spend time with you.”

“It won’t take that long,” Bitty protests, but Jack’s negotiating someone to cover for him already. “Jack.”

“I know,” he says, and breathes in. “Ready?” Bitty’s pulled out into the hallway, towards the opposite direction, away from all the reporters. They turn a corner—Jack yanks open a door, pressing them into the room, and fumbles for the lights, switching them on as fast as he can.

“Sorry,” Jack mumbles. Bitty doesn’t know how to tell him that he’s not that scared of cramped, dark spaces anymore, or that he thinks he’s a little too old for this phobia now.

“It’s okay,” Bitty reassures him, and his voice sounds a little amused. “What are we doing?”

“Hiding,” Jack says, eyes wide, in the way that signals he’s about to kiss him.

Bitty giggles, a little. He’s still in that phase of being a little stupid when it comes to Jack. “In the _closet_ ,” he adds.

But this doesn’t make Jack laugh—or even smile. His brows furrow, instead. He makes Bitty’s heart ache.

“Oh, Jack,” Bitty breathes out. “It’s just a joke—“

“—It’s not going to be forever,” Jack blurts out. “I promise.”

“I know, Jack,” Bitty says, as gently as he could manage. He leans in, tucks his face into the junction of neck and shoulder. “It’s okay.”

 

+

 

They have a fight—over nothing important, really, but they make up because there’s only so much time to spend around one another, and Bitty’s forgotten what it was mainly about, but not the anger. He still sleeps in bed with Jack, because the couch is a little rough, and Bitty doesn’t like sleeping on it often. He’s forcing himself to fall asleep when Jack says something, too quietly to hear.

“What?” Bitty says, half-awake, and still a little tired from his dissertation. “What did you say?”

He turns around to face Jack—who’s staring at the ceiling. It’s tiring to just look at him, all tense lines and twitching hands.

Jack inhales suddenly, sharp. “If you were me.”

Bitty grits his teeth, a little, but he sees Jack’s knuckles, tight around his sheets, and forces himself to shut his eyes.

“I’m not you, Jack,” Bitty amends, and feels all his frustration rushing back.

Jack leans over and switches the bedside lamp on.

“Then let’s come out.”

 

+

 

At age six—Bitty was right. It felt good to outgrow someplace you’ve boxed yourself in for too long. He’s two decades older, now, already moved into a new house. It’s what it is.

Jack’s still sleeping, too-tired from the game and last-minute moving to wake up on time for his jog. Bitty swipes open his phone, takes a shot of Jack’s sleeping back, and tweets it, before tossing his phone back onto his table when he stands. Makes his way to the walk-in.

They’ve been planning on moving for a few months now—but it doesn’t occur to him how large their closet is until he’s standing in front of it, blind-sided by how there are, inexplicably, windows, for no apparent reason.

The lights make him squint when he turns them on, the ring on his finger catching slightly on the plastic switches.

Bitty doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, awe-struck. But the sheets rustle after a moment, loud through the door frame, and Jack’s voice travels five seconds later, a little drowsy.

“Bitty?” Jack tries. “Eric?”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever need time to stop?


End file.
